


The Price

by dragonwriter24cmf



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Cussing, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Hiruma, Spoilers, Stubborn Hiruma, Teamwork, bad language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-22 12:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22563460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonwriter24cmf/pseuds/dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: Three weeks between the game with the Dinosaurs and the Christmas Bowl. Hiruma's arm is broken, but there's no way in hell he's gonna miss the game he's worked for five years to play in. He's determined to be healed and play, no matter what price he has to pay to achieve that.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	1. Wounded

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters belong to the creators of Eyeshield 21.

**The Price**

His arm felt heavy. That was the first thing he noticed. His right arm felt weighted down. Something was binding it. He couldn't seem to focus his thoughts either. It felt like there was a buzz inside his skull, muddling his mind. And his eyelids felt like they weighed a ton. He hadn't felt this out of it since the end of the Shinryuuji game, when he'd passed out in front of his computer.

“Keh.” With an effort, Hiruma forced his eyes open, blinking once or twice to clear them. Above him was a plain white ceiling. He glanced to either side. He was in a small room, lying in a railed bed. There were two chairs to one side, tiled floors, and a small alcove that looked like a bathroom. He recognized the settings, even if he hadn't really been in them before. One lip curled up in a half-hearted sneer. “Damn hospital.”

His gaze traveled down his right arm, to the solid cast that wrapped him from shoulder to wrist, his eyes narrowing. _What_ _the_ _hell....oh._ _Yeah._ _I_ _got_ _sacked_ _by_ _that_ _damn_ _Gaou._ _He_ _broke_ _my_ _arm._ _The_ _fucking_ _shrimp_ _took_ _my_ _place,_ _until_ _I_ _got_ _myself_ _under_ _control_ _and_ _made_ _the_ _damn_ _manager_ _tape_ _me_ _up_ _for_ _the_ _last_ _minutes_ _of_ _the_ _game._ _After_ _the_ _damn_ _fatty_ _got_ _his_ _act_ _together._

He frowned, his mind going over the fragments he recalled after that. Searing pain. Trying desperately to remain conscious. Marcoh targeting him when they realized he couldn't really catch or hold a ball. The Devil Bats, shielding him. The one long, Hail Mary pass he'd managed to throw, trying to pretend like he'd expected the damn monkey to get it instead of being desperately relieved. The final play, when he realized that Sena couldn't take a Devil Bat Dive, that he'd been injured in a sacrifice play earlier. Running the ball himself. Impact on the goal line. Falling. Then only pain that swept him into darkness. _Damn._ _Did_ _we_ _win_ _it?_ He couldn't remember. He'd been running on pure adrenaline. He vaguely recalled screaming something after the buzzer, but whether it had been a scream of victory or fury was hazy in his mind.

With effort, he shoved himself upward. His arm seemed...achy, but still oddly numb. He had a feeling someone had dosed him with pain killers. He wondered who had admitted him. Doburoku and the damn manager, probably. He just hoped like hell that they hadn't called his father. He noted that they'd put him in a damn hospital gown, and wondered where the hell his uniform, notebook and weapons were. _Fucking_ _idiots...._

His finger found the button to call the nurse, and he was about to press it when the door opened. A middle aged man, dark hair going silver about the temples, stepped into the room with a smile. “Ah. Hiruma-san. Awake I see.” The smile widened just a touch. “I was just coming to see how you were. The pain medication should have kept you under for another two hours, but your teammates informed me that you were rather stubborn.”

“Keh. Cut the crap. Tell me.” He shifted the right shoulder, and suppressed a snarl. “How bad is it?”

The smile disappeared. “Your body sustained numerous contusions, which you're likely aware of. Of course, the most serious is your right arm. The humerus, the upper arm bone, was broken in two places. According to the reports of your friends and coach, you continued playing after your injury, which has exacerbated the damage. We performed surgery a few hours ago, to put you back together.” He examined the notes on a chart at the end of the bed. “According to the surgeon's notes, it's a fairly severe break. He estimates at least six weeks to heal properly, plus two of physical therapy to restore the muscle tone.”

“What the Hell!” If he hadn't been drugged, he would have lunged off the bed. If he'd had his gun, any of his guns, he would have shot the doctor, screw the consequences. “There is no fucking way I'm going to be out that long, you moron!”

The doctor stared at him a moment, disapproval and shock warring in his expression. “I'm sorry, Hiruma-san. I'm aware that your team has an important match coming up, but you simply won't be healed in time.”

“Like fuck.” He took a deep breath. There was no point in arguing with this doctor. The man didn't know him. Between the drugs still in his bloodstream and the weakness in his arm, he wasn't anywhere up to his normal threatening. Since he didn't know the doctor, that meant he didn't have any info on him. There was no time to find out, either. He settled for scowling. “Where's my damn phone?” He shifted, studied the IV and monitor stuck in his left wrist, then tugged on it. “Get this damn thing off me.”

The doctor frowned. “Hiruma-san...”

“Don't fucking call me that.” Everyone called his father Hiruma-san. He looked up and met the doctor's eyes. “I'm checking myself out. You said the damn manager was here?”

The doctor's frown deepened. “There are currently three people in the waiting area for you. Two gentleman and a young lady. She said she was the team manager, Anezaki Mamori.”

“Send them in. Give me back my damn uniform, or whatever fucking clothes I have here. And my phone.” The force of his anger and frustration was clearing his head, giving him a little strength back. He knew it wouldn't last very long, but it didn't need to. He yanked again, then hissed a curse under his breath as the IV tore loose from his wrist, leaving a bleeding hole. “Keh.”

The doctor sighed. “I really must protest. In your current condition...”

“Fuck my current condition. You've made your protest, now do what I fucking said, unless you want me to get up and damn well do it myself.”

The doctor studied him a moment, then turned and left the room. Less than a minute later, three figures appeared in his doorway. Musashi, the damn manager, and Doburoku. The kicker studied him with dark eyes. “Hiruma.”

“Old man. Where'd they put my phone and my stuff?”

Mamori stepped forward and held out his red cell phone, the one he'd been carrying. “I took your personal effects.” She laid down another bundle, containing the black pants and dark sweatshirt that was his preferred garb off the field, at least in winter. “I went through your gym bag to find you clean clothes. I'm sorry, but your uniform was in bad shape.”

At any other time, he'd have come up with something nasty or insulting to say. As it was, his arm was beginning to ache, his other bruises were making themselves known, and he was far too aware of the fact that he was sitting there in nothing but a hospital gown. And that there were more important things to worry about. “The damn doctor said he knew we had a match coming up.” His eyes met Musashi's. “We won?”

“Yeah. You got the final goal yourself.” A rare smile touched the other youth's face. “Fell across the goal line, right behind Kurita.”

Doburoku was also smiling. “Your team is going to the Christmas Bowl, Hiruma. You should be proud.”

“Keh. We're facing the fucking Teikoku Alexanders. I don't have time to be proud. Though I suppose that damn shrimp did well enough.” He glared at the thin white gown that covered him, then at the cast over his arm. He glanced up at the three of them. “Where's the rest of them?”

Musashi snorted. “We sent them off to prepare for a victory celebration, and to relax. They didn't want to go, but we told them they'd know you were better when the hospital went up in flames.”

Hiruma smirked. “Damn straight.” He considered a moment. “Oi. Damn drunk, you and the old man go fill out the paperwork to get me out of here. Shoot the on duty nurse if you have to. Damn manager, help me get out of this.” He scowled again at the hospital gown.

Mamori frowned. “Hiruma-kun...you need to take care of yourself. The doctor said...”

“The doctor is a fucking idiot. If I have to have medical attention, I'm getting it from my own damn physician, not the first idiot you morons handed me off to.” He glared at them. “Get moving, unless you want me to do it myself.”

Musashi frowned. “You sure you want Mamori to help you?”

“Keh. I said I did.”

“Hiruma.” Doburoku held his gaze. “This isn't exactly appropriate.”

“I don't give a damn. I said the damn manager. Now go.”

Mamori sighed. “You might as well, Doburoku-sensei.” She gave both men a small smile. “Don't worry, Hiruma-kun and I will work it out.”

Both men frowned, then left the room. He watched them go, then shoved aside the sheet that covered his lower body. “fucking idiots.” He was still wearing his undergarments, at least. He pushed himself to the side of the bed, then upright, stifling a curse as the world seemed to tilt. “Damn painkillers.”

“Here. Sit back down a moment.” Mamori's hand shoved lightly at his uninjured shoulder. He allowed it with another stifled curse. She took a moment to wrap a neat bandage around his left wrist, over the hole the IV had left, then shook out the pants and held them up. “Here. Just step into them, then stand up.”

He considered disobeying, but he wanted out of the hospital. He knew the painkillers would be wearing off soon. He also knew that the sooner he saw his own doctor, the better. “Fuck.” He slid his feet into the jeans, and restrained himself from kicking as she slipped them up enough for his feet to clear the bottom. Then he rose again, bracing himself lightly on the bed. After a second he straightened, grabbed the waistband, and pulled them up, getting them roughly settled.

His right hand was too clumsy, still deadened by the painkillers and the surgery, to get the button. His left wasn't much better, not with the muscles and bones bruised as they were. He cursed as he fumbled with it, then again as Mamori's deft fingers took over. “Damn manager. I ought to take a picture, for my notebook.”

A small smirk touched her face. “Ah, but then you'd have to reveal you needed help, Hiruma-kun.”

She was really getting too good at this. He almost regretted showing her how to be evil, for the one training exercise. “Keh. Thought you'd be more embarrassed.”

She flushed. “Well, I am, but...I think I understand.” She stood, and stepped around him. He jumped, startled, as her fingers touched his neck, then held still as she undid the knot of the hospital gown. “You wanted me to do this...because I did it for you earlier, right? You know I've already seen you, so it's all right.”

The hospital gown fell away, revealing his body, and the bruises and marks that littered it. The ugly blue-black bruise on his left arm, where Gaou had nearly broken it, the reason he'd told her to tape that arm as well. The dark bruises on both shoulders, where he'd hit the ground with such force that even the padding hadn't protected him completely. The one at the base of his ribcage, and on his side, where he'd clamped the ball to his side in desperation, grinding the stitches into his body, determined not to let go of their last chance. The raw marks that earlier sacks had left on him, grinding his back and shoulders into the turf as he slid across the field. The padding helped, but when he got hit, it was usually hard. He never let his team see all the damage he acquired, because it would scare the younger players to death. Musashi would have shouted at him, and Kurita would probably have broken down sobbing if he'd seen it. Doburoku would have understood, but he suspected even the old trainer would have been upset.

There was nothing to say to her statement, given the truth of it, so he stayed silent and let her maneuver the sleeves of the shirt over his arm. He even ducked his head slightly so she could pull it over without stretching the shirt too much. The cast bulged in his right sleeve, but at least she'd chosen a looser shirt, and it wasn't as bad as it might have been. He shifted, getting it as comfortable as possible, then scowled as she slipped a sling over his head and fastened it securely around his arm. He would have pulled it off, but the cast made him feel off-balance, and it helped. “Keh. Let's go.” He glared out the window. “This is Tokyo East, right? We're going to Tokyo General.” He collected himself, then strode out the door, Mamori right behind him.

*****TP*****

Forty-five minutes later, they arrived at Tokyo General Hospital. He let Musashi open the truck door for him, then maneuvered out of the car and strode up the steps of the first office building. He didn't even pause at the information desk. He didn't need to. He knew where he was going. Instead, he caught the first available elevator and hit the button for the fifth floor. He was beginning to feel light-headed, and he wasn't sure if it was pain, painkillers, or the fact that he couldn't remember when he'd last eaten. He set his teeth, got off on the appropriate floor, turned left, and walked down the hall until he found the door he wanted. Dr. Nishi Akurobo. He glared at it a moment, then shoved it open.

The nurse at the desk inside jumped, startled. “Sir?”

He stepped forward. “I need to see the damn doctor.”

He saw her swallow. “Yes sir. Do you have an appointment?”

“Keh. Don't need one. Go tell the old bastard that Hiruma Yoichi is here to see him. He'll make the damn time.”

“Hiruma-kun...” Mamori spoke softly “That's not...”

“Shut up, damn manager. The doctor and I have an agreement.” And one that was not based on his little black notebook, for once. It didn't pay to blackmail someone you were expecting to drug you or tend your injuries, after all.

The nurse seemed to relax a little at the sight of the others. “I'm sorry sir, but without an appointment....”

“I said, go get the fucking doctor.” His arm was beginning to throb, and his head was definitely spinning.

The nurse bristled. “Sir...I...” 

A voice interrupted her. “It's quite all right, Nurse. Hiruma is expected.” An older gentleman appeared, holding a folder. He gestured. “Send him back, please. The usual rules apply, Hiruma-kun.”

He snorted. “These idiots already took my ammo.” The nurse opened the door, and he stepped on through, then stopped and turned around. “Oi...damn manager...you stay here.”

She shook her head. “It's a manager's job to tend to the welfare of all players and remain apprised of their physical condition.”

He was reminded of how irritating it was that the girl had a near photographic memory, and had read the rule book, the guide book, and various other books on the duties of a football manager. “Keh. Fine. But none of you are breathing one damn word about this.” She nodded, and he turned back.

The doctor led them to an exam room, and gestured him toward the table. “I've been expecting you. I was following the game on the TV when I had the time.” He gestured to the small unit in one corner. “I saw you go down. It was a very impressive comeback you made. Congratulations on your victory.”

“I don't need your congratulations, old man. The Christmas Bowl is in three weeks. Fix my damn arm before then.” He shifted the sling slightly.

“Ah. Broken arm? I'm surprised you didn't come to me sooner.”

He scowled. “Passed out. Damn idiots took me to Tokyo East.”

“Ah. Well, tell me what the doctors told you, before you stormed out.” Doctor Akurobo settled back.

“Humerus. Compound break in two places.” He heard Doburoku's sharp inhalation, saw Musashi tense, and Mamori put a hand to her mouth. “They did surgery to put it back together while I was still out.” He gestured, and Mamori handed over the copy of the case notes he'd gotten from the doctor. “Said it would be an eight week full recovery.”

Akurobo looked through the notes. “Based on these notes, it's an accurate assessment.”

“Not good enough. I need a better answer, damn doctor.” He scowled at the other man.

“This treatment offers the best course for you, if you want to maintain your strength.” Akurobo looked up. “Even if there is an alternative, any other course of treatment leaves you at risk for further damage.”

“It only has to be set for the damn Christmas Bowl.”

Akurobo sighed and settled back against the wall. “There is...one possible alternative. But it's experimental, and it will be difficult.”

“Keh. Spill it.” He shifted.

“A combination treatment. I can put you in an oxygen capsule to speed the healing process on the bone. That will help it set faster. I can also take you out of the cast and start you doing exercises now, while you undergo the treatment, to maintain the muscle strength. In theory, your arm might recover enough to play.” The doctor held up a hand. “Bear in mind...this plan would be risky at best, and there's no guarantee it would work.”

“Better than a two month wait. What else?”

Akurobo sighed. “If you do this...Hiruma-kun, I won't lie. It would be terribly painful. The healing time is compressed, therefore, so is the pain of it. When you throw in the exercises...you'll be able to take painkillers while you're in school, but in order to prevent more, and possibly irreversible damage, we'll need to monitor you carefully, so you can't have them during your therapy. And the strain on your body would be incredible.” he sighed, “And even then, it's not 100 percent sure that you'll regain the use of your arm.”

“What's the odds?”

“Fifty-fifty. At best.”

He smiled. “Keh. The odds of our winning against the Dinosaurs were a hell of a lot lower. Set it up.”

“Hiruma.” Musashi stepped forward. “This kind of risk....”

“Shut it, old man kicker.” He glared at his friend. “This kind of risk is acceptable. We're going to the Christmas Bowl. Like hell I'm gonna sit on the sidelines. Besides...” He cracked a wide smirk. “The damn shrimps would be lost without me. And the fatty would break down if he thought I'd missed Christmas Bowl because of this. He was damn near impossible before.”

There was a long moment of silence between the two of them. Then Musashi sighed. “Fine. If you insist. But...one condition.” The dark gaze pinned him. “You'll let us transport you, to and from the hospital. We'll use Doburoku sensei's truck. Or I'll borrow one from the construction yard.”

He'd have liked to tell the kicker to go to hell but...roads were rough after dark. An injured man was a target on the streets after a certain hour, and even with a small arsenal at his disposal, it would be difficult. Besides, if the doctor was correct about the severity of the treatment, then he might not even be in shape to take himself home. “Fine. Unless I say otherwise.” He needed to have a talk with Sena at some point. With a game of this magnitude coming up, the shrimp would need a bit of encouragement to get him fired up. At school, it would be a pain in the ass.

“If you give me a good reason.” Musashi crossed his arms, the picture of unmovable certainty.

“Fine, old man.” He turned back to the doctor. “How long?” 

Akurobo shrugged. “At least 24 hours to set up treatment. And you'll need to be in the tank a minimum of five hours a day.”

That was going to cut into practice, and they needed every minute. He knew he could trust Musashi and Doburoku to lead the team, and Mamori to organize things, but he didn't have the time nor energy to direct them in everything he wanted done. And he wasn't sure yet if the other teams were going to fulfill the bargain he'd suggested earlier. He was pretty certain the Seibu Gunmen and the Ojou White Knights would, as a matter of honor, but they were going to need more help than that. “Keh. If it's going to be like that, then set this up for me.” He walked over, pulled a towel out of the dispenser above the sink, and held out his hand. The doctor dropped a pen into it. It was awkward, writing left handed, but he managed. “I'll need this as well.”

The doctor took the note, and blinked at it. “Hiruma-kun...”

“No excuses. If anything, you'll get another damn patent out of it, old man, and a willing experimental subject. So don't fucking complain.”

Akurobo studied him a moment, then sighed and nodded. “All right. I'll see what I can do. Come back...I assume you'll want our usual arrangement?” Hiruma nodded. “All right. Not tomorrow night. The night after. In the meantime, rest. Take your painkillers. I assume you had some prescribed.”

Hiruma nodded again. “Manager has them.” He saw Mamori blink at the lack of an expletive with that, but she didn't say anything.

The doctor nodded. “Take them. And do not use that arm for anything. Any movement at this point may exacerbate the damage and, as you say, you are working to a very tight window. Come back two nights from now, and we'll start your treatment.” His gaze flicked over Hiruma's lean frame. “And eat something. In fact, regular meals for the next three weeks. You'll need the extra energy. As much protein and calcium and such as you can stand. It will help.”

Hiruma nodded. He wasn't usually a regular eater, and he really couldn't see himself drinking milk like Musashi did, but he understood the importance. And if it helped his arm heal faster, he'd drink a gallon a day. He remembered when the Devil Bats and the White Knights had all but cleaned out the barbeque downtown, and grinned. Then the smile faded.

He hurt like hell. His head was spinning, and his stomach was snarling at him. He needed to get to someplace where he felt comfortable collapsing. He managed to force his face into it's usual expression. “How much is this gonna cost me?”

The doctor considered, then wrote out a sum and handed the paper to him. Hiruma took it and winced. That was going to cut into his reserves. He'd need to head back to the base, see if he could run up some of his usual luck. Either that or sell off some of the spare ammo and weapons he had lying around. He was fond of his guns, but he had several duplicates, and some of it he was only holding in lieu of cash from the players he'd trounced on the army base. Now was as good a time as any to settle debts.

He tried to reckon up who he could lean on for a favor, who owed him money, and who he could barter with, but he couldn't focus. It wasn't until he felt Musashi's hand on his shoulder that he realized he was beginning to sway rather dangerously.  _ Crap. _

He mustered a scowl, and a nod. “I'll get it to you, damned hack.” He glanced up at the clock. “Nine pm, two nights from now. I'll be back here then.” He didn't wait for the doctor's nod, just turned around and left the building.

He made it all the way to the car before he staggered. Musashi caught him and nudged him, ever so gently, to lean on the truck while he opened the door. He found enough energy to shove himself into the truck, then closed his eyes. “Damn manager. I need my meds.”

“Here.” Hiruma cracked his eyes open to find the pills being proffered, along with a bottle of water. He grabbed the medicine and tossed it back, then drank down a third of the bottle and shut his eyes again. He was considering dropping back to sleep when he felt her hand touch his shoulder.

He cracked his eyes back open. “What, damn manager?”

She held out a sandwich. Ham, it looked like. “The label says the medicine needs to be taken with food, and the doctor ordered you to eat something. It isn't much, but I got this for you.”

He eyed the sandwich. It was obviously straight up hospital food, possibly scrounged out of a cafeteria or even a vending cooler. And ham wasn't his favorite at any time. But his stomach was growling, and he'd needed painkillers just often enough to know they weren't kidding about the necessity of taking them with food. He made a face and reached for the sandwich. “Che. Next time, get roast beef. Or even a hamburger. Not this crap. Or even chicken.”

Mamori glared at him. “Hiruma-kun...” She stopped, then sighed and settled back. “Never mind. Just eat.”

He bit into the sandwich, grimacing at the taste and texture. Still, it served to fill his stomach. He finished it, and the water bottle. “Che.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Oi, old man, you know where to go, right?”

Musashi nodded. “I remember. Unless you've changed residences again.”

“No.” Hiruma shook his head, feeling the side effects of the painkillers sweeping over him. Normally, he only felt slightly dulled, but he was exhausted, and he hurt. He allowed himself to sink back into his seat. “Fine. Wake me when we get there.”

Twenty minutes later, Mamori roused him. He took his gear from her with his good arm, cursing as he fished out his apartment key, then went inside, snarling a curse back over his shoulder with a warning for them not to follow him in. Fortunately, none of them did, so none of them saw him as he staggered to the elevator and then out of it into his apartment. He wasn't used to turning the key left handed, but he managed. He staggered inside, dropped his bag, then stumbled into his bedroom, reeling like a drunk soldier. He managed to topple onto his bed, with just enough presence of mind to avoid his broken arm, then closed his eyes. Within seconds, he was asleep.

*****TP*****

He woke the next morning feeling refreshed, except for his throbbing arm. A quick raid of his kitchen revealed leftovers, and he ate and took his medication before he got to the rest of his business. The shower was a pain, as was taking care of his hair and getting dressed after, but he managed.

He spent the rest of the day planning training, and a celebration for his team. They deserved it, no matter how much he yelled and shot at them. After all, they'd made it to the Christmas Bowl. And most of them hadn't even played football before March. It was an astounding feat, even if he would never, ever say it to their faces. They deserved to celebrate before he threw them into training for the Christmas Bowl. And before they had to face the undefeated champions of the Christmas Bowl, the Teikouku Alexanders. Plus, it would make an excellent diversion for him to slip away to his treatment with the doctor.

Two hours had everything arranged for a party on board a cruise ship. Another few had the beginnings of his training plans set up and emailed to the appropriate people. His arm throbbed off and on, even with the medication, reminding him when he needed to take his pills and eat. Still, it was inconvenient as hell. He was glad no one was there to see or hear him as he cursed, struggled with his keyboard, or staggered about the apartment, trying to maintain his balance when the pills made him groggy.

The next evening he joined his team at the party. He showed them around, presented a brave face, spouted the required insults. Then he introduced his 'game' with the exploding balloons. Everyone saw him leave, laughing at them, so he knew none of them would follow. He saw Musashi's eyes narrow in concern as he took off down the gangplank, but the kicker said nothing. Once he was off the ship, he slowed, cursing the pain in his arm. As ordered, he hadn't taken his last dose of painkiller, and his arm was throbbing. He was almost relieved when he turned into the alley and Doburoku met him with the truck.

Doburoku held the door for him, watching with concerned eyes as he slid into the truck. “Hiruma. Are you sure about this?”

“Hell yes.” He bit back a curse as pain shot up his arm, but didn't look at the trainer. “The Christmas Bowl is in three weeks. I'm playing.”

Doburoku frowned. “Hiruma....”

He turned and met the trainer's gaze. “I went on a Death March for this, you damned old lush. Did you really think I'd fucking give up now for something like this?” He shifted his arm.

Doburoku eyed him for a moment more, then turned away and started the truck. Seconds later, they were on their way.

The doctor was waiting for them at the door when they pulled up. He watched as Hiruma stepped out of the truck. “Hiruma-kun.”

Hiruma met his gaze. “Everything ready?”

Akurobo nodded. “We're just waiting for you. Except for the experimental device you asked me for. That should be ready tomorrow or the next day.”

Hiruma nodded. That was good enough. He turned back to the car. “Get back the party. You or the old man kicker can come and get me in about six hours.”

He thought the old trainer might argue with him, but Doburoku only nodded. The dark glance cut to the doctor. “Take good care of him.” Akurobo nodded, and then Doburoku backed the truck out and disappeared into the night.

Akurobo led him down to a small room, something like a gym. It was a pain in the ass, getting his dress shirt off, but he managed, setting it aside in favor of the t-shirt he'd been wearing underneath. Akurobo gestured for him to sit down on an exam table, and he did. After a moment, the doctor came over with a small saw. “Are you ready?”

Hiruma nodded, his teeth clenching ever so slightly. Even the thought of hands near his broken arm was unpleasant, but there was no other way. “Get on with it, fucking doctor.”

“Language, Hiruma-kun.” Hiruma nodded, accepting the censure. Akurobo didn't really mind if he cursed, but he did insist on proper respect as a doctor. It was part of their agreement. He'd gotten away with being rude the other day because the doctor had known he was still coming down from the game, but he didn't have that excuse now.

The saw whined to life. Hiruma kept his face forward as it traveled over the back of his arm. His left hand clenched on the table. Without the painkillers, even the slight vibration of the saw ached, especially as it passed over the bruises Gaou had left on him, still black and painful to the touch. Then the saw came around to the front of his arm, Akurobo gently manipulating his shoulder so he could reach it, and he clenched his teeth as well. He'd known the treatment would hurt, but hadn't expected just getting his arm out of the cast to feel so uncomfortable.

Finally, Akurobo finished, and carefully removed both pieces of the cast. The cool air and lack of confinement felt strange, after two days bound up in bandages. Hiruma gingerly flexed his arm, wincing at the pain. “What now?”

“Now we'll run you through a series of exercises. For tonight, I'm going to put you through these without weights. Tomorrow, or the night after, we'll start adding weights until you've gained a reasonable amount of strength back.” Akurobo stepped back. “Stand up for me please, and straighten your arm.”

Hiruma did, grimacing at the dull throbbing that pounded through his upper arm, in time with his heartbeat.

Akurobo saw his expression. “I did warn you this was going to be painful, Hiruma-kun.”

“And I told you, I don't give a damn. I need to be ready to play in three weeks. Let's get on with this.” He gritted his teeth.

“All right. The way you were flexing your arm earlier, the curls. I want you to do that, 25 times, but slowly. Feel the muscles respond, tense and loosen. And tell me what part hurts the most.”

He nodded, and started. By the time he got through five, he felt as if he'd been punched, hard, or on the receiving end of a tackle from the Taiyo Sphinx player, Banba. By ten, he'd confirmed that it was worst at the half-way point, and his arm felt like he'd taken a jack-hammer to the bones. By twenty-five, he'd curled his left fist into the exam table, to hide the shaking, and his teeth were clenched tight enough to make his jaw ache.

Akurobo watched him for a moment. “Are you ready for the next exercise, Hiruma-kun?” He clamped his jaw tighter, then nodded. “All right. I want you to straighten your arm, then raise it from your side, to shoulder height, hold it for five seconds, and drop it. Like this.” He demonstrated, extending his arm from the shoulder, sideways, then lowering it. “15 repetitions.”

The first one felt like someone had poured liquid fire into his arm. “Fuck.” He cursed, set his teeth in a grimace.  _ Fourteen more. Just fourteen more. I can fucking do this. I'm not going to let this fucking arm keep me out of the Christmas Bowl. _ He raised his arm again. Then again, and again. He felt like hell, worse than he had after throwing the Hail Mary pass to Monta. Then it had only felt like someone was taking a sledgehammer to his bones. Now it felt like they were grinding his arm to hamburger meat, then pouring molten metal over it.

By the time he was done, blackness was dancing at the corners of his vision. He bit his lip, drawing blood. He felt a hand on his unwounded shoulder, and looked up with a snarl.

Akurobo held out a water bottle. “This will help.” He nodded, leaned shakily against the table, and managed to get his left hand up to take the bottle. It was cold, fresh from the fridge. He drank a few swallows, letting it wash the iron of blood and the salt of sweat out of his mouth. Slowly, the darkness receded. “That can't be everything, old man.”

“No. But are you sure you wish to continue? You looked like you were going to pass out, Hiruma-kun.”

With anyone but the doctor, he would have snarled out a denial. And an insult. Maybe shot at them. But he didn't have his guns, part of their agreement, and in a situation like this, he was required to be honest. Much as he would have liked to deny it, that too was one of the rules. He had to be honest. Besides...his doctor was allowed to see him vulnerable. “I damn well was. But it doesn't fucking matter. I said I'd do whatever it fucking takes, and I will.”

“Are you certain?” Akurobo was watching him with concern. “The oxygen tank is prepped for you. If you want, we can stop here for the night, put you in for your treatment.”

Hiruma gritted his teeth. “If I were a normal fucking patient, and I whined about how damned hard it was, would you send me off?” He leveled a challenging stare at the doctor.

Akurobo actually chuckled. “You are never a normal patient, Hiruma. And no, probably not. However, that arm was only broken a few days ago. There's nothing wrong with giving it another day or two to heal.”

He knew the doctor was right, but still...He pushed himself upright with a grimace. “What's next on the list?”

Over the next half-hour, the doctor guided him through a series of exercises. Stretching his arm out in front of him, behind him. Above his head. Then slow arm circles, forward and back. Various stretches. Then he had him place his palms together and push, very lightly. That hurt more than he would have thought possible, and had him trembling with the reaction to it. Finally, Akurobo called a halt, and directed him to lie back on the table.

Hiruma settled back, too dizzy to do more than obey. Agony pounded through his arm, from shoulder to wrist. Despite the lightness of the exercises, his t-shirt was soaked in sweat, and he was shaking as if he'd gone through a five hour intense practice, possibly even under oxygen deprivation conditions. He felt a little sick to his stomach, and his vision was swimming. His lip had been bitten bloody in two or three places, and his jaw was so tight he wasn't sure it would unlock enough for him to direct practice.

Something cold settled over his arm, mercifully dulling the pain, though it still felt like he'd been beaten with a sledgehammer, or gotten run over by a train. He blinked his eyes open, grimacing as sweat and pain blurred his vision.

“Here.” Something cool and damp pressed into his left hand. “Clean your face, you'll feel better. We'll put you on an ice pack for twenty minutes, to draw out the heat and numb your arm a little, then stick you in the oxygen tank. And here's something for your lip, and your jaw, since they must be sore.”

He looked at Akurobo. The doctor was holding out a tube of some general anti-septic, and something that he knew soothed muscle pain. He nodded. “Set it on the damn bed.” His voice was hoarse, though he knew he hadn't been screaming.

Akurobo nodded and laid the cloth by his left hand, close enough he could feel it there. Hiruma waited until the doctor's footsteps faded, then picked it up. To his irritation, his left hand was shaking as badly as the rest of him. He felt a sneer curl his upper lip, then pushed it aside and ran the cloth awkwardly over his face. It felt good, cooling his face and cleansing the sweat away. He ran the cloth over his face and neck, then set it on his shoulder while he ran a hand through his damp hair. “Che.” He wanted a shower, but there was nothing that could be done about it.

Akurobo returned a few minutes later. “Has the ice done it's work?”

Hiruma levered himself upright, moving slowly to avoid jarring anything. “If you mean, is my fucking arm numb, then yes.” It still ached dully, but no worse than it did after a hard practice or a tough game. At least, he didn't have to clench his jaw to keep from screaming.

Akurobo nodded. “Did you get the anti-septic on your lip?”

Hiruma snorted. “Too damn awkward.” He grimaced, feeling the sting of the wound. But Agon had bloodied his mouth worse in the Shinryuuji game, and he knew it would mend soon enough. “Leave it.”

“As you wish. This way please.” Akurobo turned and departed. Hiruma jumped lightly off the table and followed him, wincing as the movement made his broken arm throb. Akurobo led him deep into the medical facility, then opened a door and gestured him inside. “In here, please.”

Hiruma entered. In the middle of the room was a giant tube, rather like an MRI machine. “This is it?”

“It is. Step inside and make yourself comfortable, and I'll start the treatment.” Akurobo met his eyes. “I'll warn you now, you may get a bit dizzy. It's a common side effect. And I suggest you take the time to relax. You're going to be in there for quite a while.”

Hiruma didn't bother to respond. He settled on the edge, kicked off his shoes, and pulled himself inside. The lower section was padded, covered in a leather or vinyl type covering. He was glad of that, it was better than lying on cold metal or plastic. He slithered his way in, holding his arm close to him, then arranged himself against the padding and waved an 'ok' signal to Akurobo. The doctor pulled the lid closed, leaving him in darkness alleviated only by a pale blue light. Seconds later, he heard a subtle hum as the machine came to life, then the hiss of oxygen being pumped into the chamber.

He lay for a moment, listening, then took a deep breath and forced himself to relax, to let his muscles loosen up. He didn't really like being confined, especially not in such a tight place. And he certainly didn't like lying there so helplessly, at someone else's mercy. He wished he had a gun with him, though he couldn't use it.

He shoved the thought away. Instead, he began going over player statistics in his head, running through the information in his mind. In the darkness of the capsule, he grimaced. Most of his players were at a disadvantage in terms of experience. After all, he and the porker and the old man were the only ones who'd played a single game before last March. Some of them had raw skill, like the porker jr and the chibis. All of them had passion. But still...the Teikoku Alexanders were the best in Japan, had been for a long time. It was going to take more than raw talent and enthusiasm to beat them.

He ran through training strategies in his head. Normally, he'd have been thinking of how to schedule practice games, for more experience. But they'd made it to the top of their league, so none of them would take the challenge seriously. Besides...he couldn't play. Which meant, serious or not, they'd be at a disadvantage, with only the substitute quarterback. Not that the damn shrimp didn't have promise, but he was nowhere near ready for that. And he needed as much practice as he could get in being a running back, to beat the Teikoku Eyeshield 21.

He ran through the training strategies he'd written up for this. Trying to sort out how to implement them when he was imprisoned in a capsule, or sidelined with a sling. It would be easiest if the other teams came through on their promise to help train them. Then he could get the damn manager to delegate. But he knew better than to count on them. Ojou and Seibu probably would, they had a fair relationship with those teams. But Shinryuuji might not, and he figured the fucking Mop-Head, Agon, most definitely wouldn't. He had to account for that, and train his players accordingly.

Besides that, they needed a new playbook, and a new code. The Alexanders had plenty of time to study them, to watch and analyze their movements. And anyway, his normal strategies wouldn't work on them.

The thought made him wonder if any of his team had gone, or would go, to scout the Alexanders. He'd always insisted on it, taking his team to games, putting them in position to watch the other teams practicing, telling them to observe the competition. But there was no way he'd be able to threaten them onto a bus in his current condition. Kurita wouldn't think of it, the old lush of a trainer couldn't make them, and Musashi was too damn busy. The damn manager might think of it, but she had to coordinate practices with him injured.

The chibi might. He'd had his eye on Sena since the first day he'd seen him run. The runt had skills, and his understanding had developed incredibly fast, almost as fast as his own. He'd stopped having to drag the fucking shorty to games after the first few. In fact, he knew Sena had watched the Ojou-Seibu championship game, even when he was ill and should have stayed home.

He calculated the odds. There was at least a fifty percent chance that Sena would take a chance to go and spy out the Alexanders. And if he went, the damn monkey would go too. He snorted, his lip curling in a grimace. The Alexanders had an impressive line up, and an even better training program. Not to mention, two of their key players were Yamoto, the  _ genuine _ Eyeshield 21 from Notre Dame, and Taka Honjou, son of the baseball player the dumb monkey so admired. That kind of pressure would most likely overwhelm the damn chibis. Granted, Sena had encountered so many people claiming the Eyeshield 21 title that he was almost used to it, but he'd probably still fret. The monkey, on the other hand...he'd probably have to shoot the idiot back to his senses, maybe kick him into a snowdrift or three.


	2. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiruma heals and prepares his team for the big game.

The door creaked open, and Akurobo slid the platform he was lying on out. He blinked. “It's been five fucking hours?”

“It has.” The doctor backed away as he levered himself out with his good arm, and swung his legs over. He shook his head and held onto the side of the platform as the world swayed, taking deep breaths to relax himself and settle his system. Finally, the world stopped spinning. He straightened. Akurobo stepped forward. He held still while the doctor re-bandaged his arm, then fastened a sling around his neck and settled his arm in place. He wanted to protest that it made him look like a fucking invalid, but he knew there was no point.

The doctor arranged everything to his satisfaction, and stepped back. “Your friend is waiting outside the emergency entrance with his truck.”

Hiruma nodded. “That other project, it'll be done tomorrow, right?” The next day was supposed to be the first of the joint practices, and he didn't want to miss it.

Akurobo nodded. “Be here as soon as you leave school, and we'll set you up in it.” Hiruma nodded, and the doctor held up a hand. “One more thing.” He held out a white pill and a glass of water. “You should take your painkillers now. As I warned, you, the healing will hurt, if it isn't already. Better to be prepared.”

Hiruma nodded, took the pill, then the water, and swallowed both. “See you tomorrow.” Then he turned and walked out. He was rather pleased that his steps were more or less steady as he made his way to the emergency entrance.

Musashi was waiting there with his truck. He stepped out, opened the door, waited until Hiruma was inside, then came back and settled in the drivers seat. “Everything go well?”

“Yeah. Just...fuck.” Hiruma gasped as pain bloomed in his arm, a pulsing beat of agony. Despite his normal self control, he doubled up in the passenger seat, gasping through gritted teeth. His arm felt like it had been pulped into hamburger and then roasted, while still attached to him. He bit his lip against a desire to scream. “Fuck...”

“Hiruma!” Musashi sounded alarmed. “I'll get the doctor.”

“No.” He managed enough control to grit the words out. “Don't need...the fucking doctor. Just a reaction....from the damn healing process. Be fine...once the fucking medicine kicks in.” He forced himself to sit up, grimacing as the shift in positions sent another wave of pain through his broken bones. “Take me home, damn kicker.”

“Are you sure?” Musashi frowned at him. “Hiruma...”

“Just fucking go, or I'll get out of the car and walk.” He bit his lip again.

“You wouldn't even make it a block.” Musashi still looked concerned, but he started the engine anyway. “Fine, I'll take you. But I'm not leaving until this passes.”

“Do whatever the hell you want. Just get me home, old man.” Hiruma leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the waves of agony crashing over him. He knew the doctor had told him it would be bad, and he should have expected this. Akurobo knew his normal pain tolerance, and he'd thought he was prepared. But... _ Fuck. Feels like I've been sledgehammered. It's almost worse than when that damned dinosaur broke it in the first place. Shit. _ His jaw clenched.  _ There's no fucking point in complaining. I'm going to play in the Christmas Bowl, even if it feels like someone's taking my arm apart. If this is what it takes, then this is what it fucking takes. _

Musashi remained silent as he drove him home. Hiruma was glad of it. He wasn't up for making conversation. He was glad it wasn't Doburoku who'd picked him up. The trainer would have been either drunk and talkative, or sober and rattling around with concern. He didn't need either. But Musashi was content to be silent and concentrate on driving, so he was able to close his eyes, lean back, and concentrate on breathing through the pain. 

By the time they'd arrived at his apartment, the painkiller was kicking in, and he'd realized that whatever Akurobo had given him, it was  _ much _ stronger than what he'd gotten from the other doctor. He was practically unconscious, even standing up. He could have cursed at the man, but Akurobo knew him. If he'd dosed him stronger, then it was necessary. He resigned himself to putting up with it, and trying not to reveal how much his head was spinning. 

Musashi seemed to guess, in spite of his efforts. Once they reached his apartment building, the kicker turned off the engine, walked around the car, and opened his door. Before Hiruma could quite stop him, the other youth fished out his keys and, in a rather no-nonsense way, pulled him out of the car and slung his unbroken arm over his shoulders, then steered him toward the door. Hiruma staggered, his balance virtually non-existent with the medication. He wanted to curse at Musashi, if only to ease his own frustration, but he was aware that he was too shaky to walk. He resorted to glaring, and snarling wordlessly under his breath as they maneuvered over the stairs and down the hall.

At his apartment, Musashi clicked the lock open, shoved the door open with a foot, then guided him inside and dumped him carefully on the bed. Then he straightened. “Get some rest, until the meds get out of your system.” His dark eyes flicked over Hiruma's frame. “You want me to get your shoes for you?”

Hiruma managed a half-hearted snarl. “Hell no. Get the fuck out and let me sleep.”

Musashi nodded. “Sure. I'll be back to pick you up for school in the morning. Need me to come early?”

Hiruma snorted, then dropped back to lie across his bed. “Do whatever you fucking want. I'll manage.”

Musashi snorted. “Early then.” He set Hiruma's keys on the table by his bed, then left. Hiruma just had time to register the soft click of the front door closing before the blackness rolled over him.

He woke the next morning to feel his arm throbbing dully. He grimaced. His head was slowly clearing, but he still felt like his thoughts were trying to move through molasses. He cursed under his breath, then rolled out of bed, glancing at the clock as he did so. An hour and a half before school started. Good enough. He staggered into the shower.

The warm water woke him up, as did the annoyance of having to do everything one handed while keeping his other arm dry. By the time Musashi arrived, he was mostly dressed, had managed to get his school stuff together.

Musashi entered while he was still getting his shoes on, cursing. “Medicine's worn off.”

Hiruma snarled at him. His arm was throbbing, but he knew damn well that the medicine was going to make him groggy. With only three weeks to prepare, he needed to be at his sharpest. “I'll take a damn asprin, old man.”

Musashi studied him. “Asprin going to be good enough?” He studied Hiruma's face, unfazed by the sneer. “Not even close, huh?”

Hiruma jerked his face away. “Shut the fuck up. It's my damn arm.”

“And being all tensed up because it hurts won't heal it any faster.” Musashi snorted. “My dad made that mistake too.”

A sneer curled Hiruma's lip. “I'm not your fucking old man, idiot kicker.”

Musashi stared at him a moment, then shrugged. “Fine. I'll take you to school. But if you can't even put it past the manager or the kids, then you have to take your meds.”

Hiruma grimaced, then shoved his foot into his shoe, stood, and slung his jacket over his shoulder. “Deal.” He picked up his phone, stopping when he noticed a message. “Oi, damn kicker. You're not working today, right?”

Musashi shrugged. “My old man and the guys said to get ready for the game. I'll pull overtime afterward.”

Hiruma nodded. “Then you can take me to the fucking doctors. I need you to haul something for me.” Musashi nodded, and Hiruma snapped his phone closed. “Let's go, old man.”

The ride over was fairly smooth, but even so, his arm hurt. By the time they stopped, he felt like he'd been tackled again. He gritted his teeth, then forced his expression into it's trademark sneer and sauntered into the school yard.

The team was practicing, which was good. The damn shrimp was running with the tires, the idiot and his sister were doing throws with the damn monkey, and the line was up to their usual stuff. They'd drafted the martial arts teams again, which was good. Those guys were competitive, tough, and pissed as hell about losing face with them in the preparation for the Ojou game. As warm-up, early morning practice went, it was a decent work out. He scowled. He should have been out there with them, shouting orders and shooting at the little bastards.

“Hiruma-kun.” Mamori looked up as they approached. Then she frowned. “Are you all right? You don't look well.”

Musashi snorted. “Told you.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out Hiruma's medication. “We had a deal. Take them.”

Hiruma grimaced. “She said I didn't look well, old man. Not the same thing.” He knew he was talking bullshit, but that was his specialty.

Musashi only stared at him. “Load of shit. You look like you want to pass out.”

Mamori blinked. “Musashi-kun, what's going on?”

Musashi scowled. “Idiot quarterback won't take his meds for his arm. Thinks he can get by on asprin.”

Hiruma snarled, and wished his grip were strong enough for something larger than a pistol. “It's my fucking arm. I'll have to be at my best if we're going to beat the fucking Alexanders.”

Mamori blinked. “Sena and Monta went and got some information from them, while you were out.” She glanced at some paperwork in her hands. “I've already begun preliminary reports.”

Hiruma nodded. “Fine. We'll work out the fucking training details this afternoon.” He grimaced. It was cold out, and the cold was seeping into the injury, making it ache.

“Hiruma-kun...” Mamori's voice was soft. “Musashi-kun is right. You should take your medicine.”

“Mind your own fucking business.” He waited a moment, watching the team, then spoke in a quieter voice. “Fucking pills make me dizzy. I can't think straight.”

Mamori nodded. “But you won't be able to think straight if you're in pain, either.”

“I managed fucking well enough during the game, didn't I?”

Mamori bit her lip. “You were running on adrenaline, Hiruma-kun. And you passed out afterward.” She frowned, considering options. “Why don't you try taking a half-dose? That might dull the pain without impairing your mental facilities.”

Hiruma frowned, thinking over the suggestion. It didn't sound too bad, and his arm was throbbing. The only thing worse than being on the medication would be showing weakness, and if the damn manager had caught him out, he wasn't sure he could keep his poker face up. He looked at the school, contemplating maneuvering his way through the packed halls in his current condition. “Fucking kicker, can you snap those damn pills in half, without turning them to powder?”

Musashi popped the top of the bottle, pulled out a tablet, then flexed his hand. There was a light pop as the pill broke in two. Mamori silently handed him a water bottle. Hiruma dropped the half-pill into his mouth and washed it down, grimacing at the taste. He kept his eyes on the team. “I'll be late to the fucking afternoon practice. We're supposed to have help arriving. If they get here before I do, get the red folder in the table marked collaborative effort. Fucking training schedule is in there.”

Mamori nodded. “All right. I'll take care of it.” Hiruma watched the team a few more minutes, then turned and strode into the clubhouse. He had preparations to work on.

By the time classes started, the medication had kicked in. He felt a little off-balance, but nowhere near as bad as he had the previous doses, and his arm had gone from a pounding agony to a dull ache, leaving him able to muster his usual cutting sneer and dangerous smile. He couldn't shoot the damn semi-automatic with only one hand, but he could sure as hell intimidate people with it. Good enough. He'd have to think of something to thank the damn manager, without being obvious, of course.

Musashi was waiting with the truck at the end of classes. Hiruma got in without a word. He didn't like it, but at least today he actually had an excuse, if anyone wondered why he was riding with the kicker. Still, he was pissed about the argument from the morning, and having anyone see him so weak, and he knew Musashi wasn't expecting an apology from him, so he maintained his silence all the way over.

Akurobo was waiting for them at the entrance. “Hiruma.”

Hiruma nodded back. “You got my fucking request finished?”

The doctor nodded and pointed to a cylindrical, small chamber on wheels, propped next to the door. “I've a manual explaining how to operate it, though it's a bit rough. And you'll need to pick up a spare tank every other day.”

“Whatever.” Hiruma shrugged his unbroken arm. “Oi, old man.” Musashi met his gaze. “I need you to load that...” He gestured. “Into the damn truck for me. Then while I'm in therapy, you can snap the rest of the damn pills for me.”

Musashi nodded, eying the container with detached interest. “What is it?”

“Mobile oxygen tank.” A grin twitched his lips upward. “If you thought I was going to miss three fucking weeks of practice, you're dumber than the prancing idiot.”

Musashi shook his head. “Get to your therapy then. You won't make practice if you keep standing around.” Hiruma nodded, then followed the doctor inside.

This time, Akurobo had him loosen his muscles with a heat pack. Then they went through the exercises of the night before, half with no weight, half with a set of 1 lb weights that could be strapped around the wrist. It was such a light weight, but the first exercise he tried to do, Hiruma had to bite his lip hard and lock his knees to keep from screaming, or fainting. As it was, by then end of ten repetitions he was cursing under his breath and sweating.

Akurobo offered to let him stop there, but he shook his head. He needed to be ready. He took a few deep breaths, then continued with the exercises, his unbroken left arm clutching the table as molten, searing pain burned through his right. By the time they finished and Akurobo handed him an ice pack, he wanted nothing more than to collapse and let the darkness take him. But he couldn't. He still had to get to practice, still had to convince the idiots he was perfectly fine, still had to make sure all the efforts for the combined training were panning out. He took a deep breath, then took the ice pack from the doctor. “I'll return this tomorrow.”

Akurobo stared at him. “Where are you going?”

“Practice.” Hiruma grimaced. “Those idiots will slack off if I'm not there to terrorize them. Besides, old man kicker out there need to brush up on his game too, and he can't do that if he's stuck here acting as my fucking nursemaid.”

Akurobo frowned. “Your arm is nowhere near recovered enough to go through a practice.”

Hiruma sneered. “I know that. Mobile tank, remember? I'm going to supervise and terrorize the little punks from within my oxygen tank.” The sneer widened. “I might actually enjoy the look on the brat's faces when I roll onto the field in that thing. You did a pretty good job pitting it together.” If it worked, he was going to have to ask where Akurobo had gotten the work done. Rush work that was still decent quality was hard to find.

Akurobo snorted. “I'd never bother, but you had a point about the patent. And if it keeps you from terrorizing my staff instead of your players, then it's worth the investment. Particularly since you already agreed to pay for it.”

Hiruma nodded. “I'll be able to get to the base this weekend. You'll have your damn money next week.”

Akurobo nodded, unconcerned. “You've always been good for your payments Hiruma. I'm not worried about that.” The frown reappeared. “But I must repeat, be careful how you stress that arm outside of therapy.” he glanced at the quarterback's flushed face. “Don't forget to to take your medication.”

Hiruma shrugged. “I know. See you tomorrow.” He tucked the ice pack between his arm and his sling, where it was more or less secure, then strolled out of the office. Musashi was waiting, the tank strapped firmly in the truck, and within minutes, they were on their way back to the high school.

He read the manual Akurobo had given him on the way back to the school. By the time they'd arrived and he'd watched Musashi carefully maneuvering the damn thing to the ground, he knew how it worked. Step in, seal himself inside. A small panel at shoulder height on the left hand side would permit him to seal the tank, then pump in the oxygen, and maneuver the damn thing around the building. Akurobo had made it sturdy, like a miniature Army tank, almost, so it would be hard to damage it. At least, he hoped so.

Musashi finally got the damn thing on the ground. “You ready?”

Hiruma snorted. “Of course.” He moved forward. “Go get fucking changed and join the damn practice. If the other teams are here, I don't need any fucking idiots wondering if I needed a babysitter.” He left it unspoken that he didn't want witnesses while he tried to get the hang of using the damn thing.

Musashi nodded and disappeared. Hiruma waited, then moved forward. It was only then that he noticed a small attachment. He examined it, then grinned as he realized what it really was. Gun attachment, made for a semi-automatic weapon, and adjustable. He smirked. Akurobo really did know him. That, and the man was probably using him as a guinea pig, to see if patients using a mobile tank could used outside attachments. That was part of their deal as well, that Akurobo could sometimes use him for an experiment.

He took a moment to get his favorite machine gun and rig it. It was a pain in the ass left handed, but he managed, grimacing as his wounded arm protested through the numbness of the ice. Then he stepped inside, pulled the door closed, and hit the buttons. There was a hiss, and a familiar warmth and light-headed feeling, as the oxygen flowed into the compartment. He took a few moments to relax and accustom himself to the situation, then began the process of learning to drive the tank.

He had a few rocky starts, which he blamed on that slight 'drunken' feeling the pure oxygen inspired in him. But it only took a few minutes to get used to the controls, and then he was ready. By the time he'd done half a dozen laps around the clubhouse, he was ready to face the team. Or teams, if the others had honored their agreement.

He drove up to the field, positioning himself out of sight so he could get a feel for things. A smirk crossed his face. The rest of the bastards had kept their ends of the bargain. Well, not fucking Mop Head, but his brother Unsui was there. Good enough. He wanted to talk to the punk about that Tranquil Reflections thing. Unsui was one of the few people whose precision in passing even came close to his own. He saw Kid too, and made a note to ask about the quick draw. He knew Gaou had destroyed it, breaking his arm, but he wasn't sure whether it was because Kid was right handed, or because he used two hands to throw. He'd ask. He saw Gaou, Banba, Takami and Shin...all the critical players he'd requested, or at least most of them. They'd even already begun sorting themselves into groups for practice. The white-haired brat, Riku, and already cornered the pipsqueak and was giving him lessons in the Rodeo Drive, with Shin in assistance.

Good. They were all doing what they needed to be doing. He let a manic grin spread on his face, ignoring the fact that his arm was beginning throb, and not in the dull fashion it had previously. It was time for him to crash the party.

If getting the tank to move was annoying, the look on the faces of the rest of them when he came crashing down the hill, firing his gun, was worth it. It was, in fact, priceless, and hilarious enough for him to forget how much he ached, or the slight dizziness he felt. The rest of the practice went by well enough, though he could tell the monkey was preoccupied, and upset. He'd expected that, considering the little idiot's idol's son would be his competition in the next round.

A glance at the peewee showed that Sena had his determined look on. Good. The shrimp had obviously realized the real Eyeshield 21 was his opponent. And, just as before, he was determined not to lose. Well, the brat would get overcome with nerves at some point. If he could just get to him and make sure he got his pep talk before it became too bad, that would be fine. The problem was really going to be the damn monkey.

He filed the information for future reference, then went back to discussing details with the other quarterbacks. He'd heard a bit about the girl the Alexanders were using as a quarterback, but Takami had heard a bit more, as had Akuraba, from the Bando Spiders. He'd actually seen the chick, having been at Teikoku for a few weeks before rejoining his team-mates. Quiet, he described her, but with a good eye and a solid rhythm, which translated into the concept that she was a very focused player, and very aware of her team. Inexperienced, compared to the rest of them, but she'd been scouted by Honjou's son, so she was good. Hiruma grimaced. He knew damn well that inexperience wasn't going to count as much of a handicap for her. She'd be tough to handle, especially paired with Taka Honjou, who's catching ability was rumored to make Sakuraba look completely untrained. They spent the time after that going over passing technique. He couldn't actually practice anything, of course, but knowing what the hell you were doing was a good start, and he could get his players used to catching different styles of throws.

Finally, practice was over for the day. The visiting players went home. His team went to the clubhouse, to shower and change and go home themselves. Hiruma allowed himself to relax inside the oxygen capsule. Akurobo had installed a timer, and he still had two-and-a-half hours to go. He might as well be comfortable. He was considering taking a quick nap when someone cleared their throat outside his chamber.

He glanced through the view-port, and saw Mamori. “What is it, damn manager?”

“Hiruma-kun...” She sighed, then seemed to think better of the protest. “I have the beginning analysis reports done. I wanted to know when a good time to go over them was.”

Hiruma considered. He still had over two hours. “Now.”

Mamori blinked. “Now? Hiruma-kun...”

“I said now, damn manager. Being in this fucking tube doesn't mean my brain stopped working. I've still got over two hours in here, and I'm fucking bored. You want to talk about the reports, then we'll talk about the damn reports.”

“All right.” She settled beside him, and they began going over her player assessments. She had a good eye, and with the walls of his tank inhibiting his vision, she'd seen a lot more than he had. Like him, she'd noticed Monta's distraction and unhappiness. She was a bit dubious when he told her to let the monkey and the damn peewee sort it out, but she let it go. She knew, just as he did. Monta, Sena and Yukimitsu looked out for each other. The 'Huh' brothers had each others backs. Kurita would turn to Komosubi, or Musashi if there was a problem. Musashi rarely ever had problems, but he'd come to him, or to Kurita. The team watched out for each other.

He kept an eye on the clock while they talked. Finally, when there were only ten minutes left, he sent her home. His arm was already aching, and he knew it would get worse. Besides, he remembered how he'd nearly fallen on his nose the day before. He didn't need her to see that.

Five minutes later, the clubhouse was empty. Two minutes before he was scheduled to get out, Doburoku slipped inside. The trainer met his gaze. “Musashi told me to take you home. He gave me your medicine. Have you taken it yet?”

“No. No fucking meds during treatment. Doctor's orders.” He snorted.

Doburoku nodded and popped open the bottle. He surveyed the tube full of half pills, then dumped out two, set them on the table, and added a bottle of water and, thoughtfully enough, a stick of gum. Hiruma had to appreciate that part. Now he'd have something to chew on, instead of the inside of his cheek.

The hatch clicked, releasing him into the cold night air. Hiruma stumbled from the tank, caught himself on the table. Doburoku watched him with impassive eyes, but didn't try to help him. Obviously, either the doctor or the damn kicker had briefed him on the procedure. Hiruma took a few breaths to steady himself, then grabbed the pills and tossed them back, before following the trainer out to his old battered truck.

He made it inside the cab before the pain hit, washing over him in a wave. The gum helped, but he still couldn't stop himself from hunching over as the agony swamped him. He heard the driver side door click, then shut and Doburoku's concerned voice. “Hiruma?”

“Just drive, damn lush.” he could feel himself sweating, and knew that even his self control couldn't keep the pain off his face, but then...the old man had been around when he'd still been getting beat up over his 'Devil's Notebook', and when he'd been getting injured daily in football practice. He hoped the old man remembered that he hated being fussed over.

There was a moment of silence, then the truck started and they were off. For once, Doburoku didn't say anything to him as he drove. Instead, they made the trip in silence. Like Musashi, the old trainer parked his truck, and helped Hiruma into the apartment. He didn't question him, or badger him as the kicker had. Instead, he simply steered him inside, then set him on the bed. He was slightly pissed when the old man removed his shoes and emptied his pockets for him and threw a blanket over him, but he couldn't stop it. He heard the quiet click as the man checked that his alarm was set for him, and opened blurry eyes to see Doburoku setting out another dose of meds for him. Then the trainer turned around and watched him with dark eyes, full of concern. “Rest, Hiruma.” Then he left, and a moment later, Hiruma heard the snap of his door closing.

His last thought, as he surrendered to the medication, was that he was going to get behind on his schoolwork, if this kept up. And also that it was probably the first time he'd slept over eight hours for more than one night since he'd been in primary school.

The next few days continued in the same pattern, or nearly. He woke early, got dressed and ate something, just before Musashi or Doburoku came to get him. Then he attended classes, trying to ignore the idiots who were staring at him, with his arm in a sling. Of course, most of them knew how he'd acquired it, so his reputation wasn't taking too much of a hit. After school, therapy with the doctor, then back and into his oxygen tank. Then home. He usually made it to the truck before the worst of his pain hit. He thought, once or twice, that someone might have seen him, but no one had the guts to comment. Either that, or they, like the rest of the school, were too impressed. He didn't care. Once he was home, whoever was his escort would take him up to his apartment and drop him off. It took a few days, but he developed enough of a tolerance to the medication that he could stay awake and do his schoolwork, and his planning.

Every day in therapy, the doctor would push him just a little bit further, a little harder. More weights. New exercises. More repetitions. The first week and a half was agony beyond anything he'd ever had the bad luck to experience before. The original sacking hadn't hurt so much, nor anything else he'd even been in. Not even his first game against the army, where he and Kurita had gotten the crap beaten out of them. But he kept going, and Akurobo helped him work through it, providing ice and heat and whatever else he needed. Slowly, as they went through the second week of healing, it began to hurt less, and a quick X-ray by Akurobo confirmed that the bone was healing right on the schedule he needed. He wouldn't say he was relieved, or happy, but it certainly made the cost worth it. He'd sold half a dozen guns for it, plus traded a huge number of favors, and it was going to take him a month or more of poker to have any bargaining chips on base again. He wasn't sure even that would have covered it, except that the soldiers who knew him were following the game. Some were taking bets on him, his amateur team versus the best in the country. Others were just enjoying watching him try to kick ass. All of them admitted it was a hell of a lot less fun if he was too injured to play, and helped pay the bills. He knew what the odds against him were, and didn't care. He planned on upsetting them, which meant that some of the guys would be making a killing. Once the bill was paid, he set the thoughts out of his mind, and turned his attention to more important matters.

As expected, the damn monkey had a meltdown. He got into a fight with the others who were training him, then refused to show up at practice for several days, and texted in a resignation notice. It wasn't a formal written notice, so Hiruma didn't care too much, but he kept it. It was a pain, trying to plan a strategy without his best receiver, but he'd said it before, he didn't want to hit the field with any half-assed players who weren't going to try. Besides, he knew the damn pipsqueak was working on the brat, and it was one of the few situations where Sena was more effective than he was. The brat had a knack for recruiting and keeping players.

He never did find out what Sena did exactly, though it involved a lot of phone calls, and at least one international computer messaging call that he let the brat use his laptop for. Whatever the hell he did, it worked, and the fucking monkey came back in the middle of the second week, apologizing on bended knee. He was stuck in the damn tank, and therefore unable to properly kick the midget's ass, so he settled for a scathing lecture, blowing up his cell phone (as he said, he had 89 more of them) and delivering a definite warning of bodily harm if the damn monkey ever did or said anything that stupid again. He felt nowhere near threatening enough, but it got the message across.

Shortly after that, he managed the one-on-one talk he needed with Sena. He saw the tell-tale signs of brooding. The increased intensity in practices, the almost single-minded effort, the wild hardness that was Sena gearing himself up. He knew that outside of practices, the pipsqueak would be feeling morose, thoughtful, going over things in his head, comparing his chances. Given that he'd only played for nine months, his experience wasn't as strong, never mind that he'd beaten everyone in Kantou. He'd never gotten his re-match against the Seibu running-back, and that would tell on him, even if he had beaten Shin.

He managed to get Sena's route, including the train he boarded, from the damn manager and the monkey. He traded a ride with Musashi for a train ticket, and joined the brat on the ride to school the next day. The train was mostly deserted, too early for the morning rush. That suited him, he'd have had to shoot anyone who overheard him giving pep talks. He'd wondered how he was going to open the conversation, but as luck would have it, he found Sena studying his helmet. A smart remark about needed to clean it once in a while started the ball rolling, and the pipsqueak's confession, that he was remembering what Akaraba of the Bando Spiders had told him about remaining undefeated was a good lead into what he wanted to say. He wasn't going to say something sentimental like 'I believe in you' or 'you can do it'. Instead, he used a variant of what he'd said before the Ojou game.  _ 'Remember that I chose you. So...I will write a strategy, based on the fact that you can beat him. That you will beat him.' _ Not that he wasn't going to throw in a whole hell of a lot of other twists, but he meant it. This was a battle of aces, and for them to win, all his aces were going to have to trump the Teikoku Alexanders, so Sena defeating Yamoto would be essential.

As expected, the damn chibi took the words to heart, and pushed himself in training to an extent that even Shin was impressed with, and quite honestly left Riku gasping in his dust. Hiruma wished the damn Mop-Head would have come, as he could have pushed the brat even further, but Agon never showed, and Unsui had reluctantly admitted that Agon had even tried selling his allegiance to Teikoku. He decided he didn't give a damn. Besides, Dread-Head had gotten turned down cold, and that was worth at least a few laughs, since he was fairly certain that had never happened before.

The days ticked by, too fast and too slow all at once. Too slow, because he was burning with anticipation. He wanted this game. He'd worked five years for this game, and the final wait was enough to drive even his legendary patience into hiding. Too fast, because he needed his arm to heal, and even if the doctor said it was good progress, he still felt like it wasn't good enough. And there weren't enough hours in a day to do everything he needed to do.

Finally, the day before the game, he went for a morning appointment, rather than an evening one. Akurobo took the bandages off, x-rayed it, had him run through a variety of exercises and drills. Hiruma did as he was told, then settled back and slipped an ice pack over his arm. “Well?”

Akurobo studied the x-rays. “The bone appears well fused. A little fragile perhaps, but well fused. Your range of motion and control is much improved, and you've done all the exercises I set you with at least quadruple the weight of a football. I wouldn't say it's completely healed. However...you might be able to manage the game.”

Hiruma snorted. “I told you I wasn't going to miss it, even if this damn treatment failed.” He glanced at the x-rays. He wasn't expert enough to even be sure where the bones had broken. “Can I make practice today?” He needed at least one, to be ready. He'd have preferred more, but that couldn't happen and there was no helping it.

Akurobo considered, then nodded. “You can. But be careful. Wrap it outside of practice, heat and stretches before you go near the field, ice and a re-wrap afterward. And if starts to hurt, more than sore muscles, stop. Right then.” He frowned. “And do your best to avoid getting hit. I'm not sure what pounding that new repair can sustain. If you can wear something to support it, that would be best.”

“Fine.” He let the doctor re-wrap his arm, then jumped off the table. “Good job, old man. Let me know when you need that patent recommendation.” It was the closest he'd come to admitting he owed the doctor a favor, and possibly more than one. “I'll get that damn kicker to deliver your tank back tonight, or after the game.”

“There's no hurry.” Akurobo waved him off. “Now, off with you. I know you've got school, Hiruma.” A slight grin tugged his face. “And football practice. I'll be following your game tomorrow, so I expect to see the results of all this.”

Hiruma smirked, and left the office. Doburoku was waiting, and smiled when he saw Hiruma's face. Neither of them said anything on the drive over, for which he was grateful.

The school day was the longest he'd had in years. Normally, sitting through classes didn't really piss him off so much, but he wanted to get to the field, wanted to test out his newly repaired arm. He would have simply skipped, but the rest of them wouldn't be at the field till after class anyway, so there was no point. It didn't stop him from being the first out the door when the final bell rang, though.

The adrenaline and anticipation almost made his hands shake as he slipped into his uniform. It was clean, and expertly mended. The feel of the fabric reminded him that he hadn't worn it since the game against the Dinosaurs. He hadn't been able to put it on, himself, since Gaou had sacked him. If he'd been at all inclined toward emotional displays, then he might have indulged in one. As it was, he was grinning like a madman and, in a sheer fit of glee, indulged himself in picking up the semi-automatic rifle he'd neglected for three weeks and firing a full clip in the air, shouting like a lunatic. Everyone else was just arriving, and he saw a few people jump. To his surprise, most of them seemed to be grinning, even the damn manager as she scolded him.

The practice that followed was one of the hardest, and best, that he'd ever gone through. His arm was aching after the first hour, and more than aching after the second, but he didn't give a damn. The feel of the football in his hands, the chance to practice all those adjustments he and the others had discussed over the past weeks, that was exhilarating. Putting the damn monkey, the pipsqueak and the idiot through their paces, that was fun. He went through a round of sacking practice with the linemen, practicing ways to avoid getting the arm snapped again. It was difficult, because it was his dominant arm, and somewhat more exposed, and the practice earned him more bruises than he wanted to admit, but it was worth it. By the time he quit and moved on to honing his throwing skills again, he was reasonably certain he could survive unscathed. He couldn't quite pick up Kid's quick-draw, but he did manage Unsui's pointers, and Takami's, and the receivers showed that they were probably able to handle anything and everything he could throw at them.

After three hours, they packed it in. His players needed rest, and so did he. All of them needed to be calm, well rested and ready for the game. Normally, he didn't lecture them on what to do in preparation, but normally, they weren't going for the national championships either. He didn't make it too specific, but made it clear that any player who failed to sleep, eat well, and be ready for their morning warm-up before they went to the stadium was dead, and worse than dead after the game ended. He watched them as he spoke. They were raw, nervous, but confident in their skills and as ready as they could possibly be. Finally, he sent them away, holding back only the damn manager. He needed her to bandage his fucking arm, after all.

The next day dawned clear and cold, with melting snow on the ground. It made his arm ache, but he wasn't in the mood to care. He put a heat pack on it, and stayed out of the warm-ups with his arm, but he did shoot randomly at people, and shout at them. In a bizarre way, it seemed to increase their morale. Made him almost glad he didn't have to deal with the damn punks next year. They were getting far too used to him, and his style.

Finally, it was time. They made their way to Tokyo stadium. Confronted the Alexanders. He did make a few token efforts to unsettle them, acting like an idiot. Most of them didn't fall for it, and the ones who did were quickly set straight. Still, it was his own version of fun, and blowing off steam. And then...it was time.

The whistle sounded. The ball hit his hands. He readied to throw, the last bandages he'd worn pulling loose and falling away as he'd intended them to, and he threw. The pass soared clean and clear, everything he wanted it to do, his arm working exactly as he'd hoped, and he laughed.

He was playing in the Christmas Bowl. Going up against the best, with a shot at the National Championships. The seats were packed, all eyes on the team he'd turned from a ragged bunch of misfits into the best in Japan. He knew their odds, but with everything, with the evidence of his own miracle soaring through the air...he believed in them. For the first time, he wasn't just their leader, but fully, wholly united with them, a part of the team in a way he'd never considered, and honestly probably wouldn't have discovered if the damn dinosaur hadn't broken his arm and forced him to rely on them.

The game started in earnest, and there was no more time for introspection. He had a bunch of arrogant bastards to beat, an over-proud 'Emperor' to take off the throne, and a Championship to win. His last thought on the matter, before adrenaline and planning took over, banishing the last of the ache in his shoulder, was that everything he'd paid, in pain and money and time...

Everything, for this moment, was worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I've worked through severe injuries, and it sucks. Plus, you know it had to be rough, even if Hiruma is a tough sonofagun.


End file.
